Ecarlate et Vert
by Invisible Ranger
Summary: A brash, teenage Gaston teams up with Theophile, a mysterious man from his past, for a desperate rescue mission with high stakes for both of them. A prologue for the film with nods to "Ranger's Apprentice" and "Lord of the Rings." Enjoy; please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

**Ecarlate et Vert**

**By Mizhowlinmad (HBF), 2010**

**Disclaimer: All the **_**Beauty and the Beast**_** characters belong to Disney. The OCs are mine. This is not a crossover with **_**Ranger's Apprentice**_** as such, but if you've read that series, it may help. **

_**Prologue: Lost and Found**_

The rider was lost.

He was also soaked to the bone, ravenously hungry, and down to three arrows in his quiver. Even the short dagger he normally carried at his waist was gone; he'd foolishly thrown it after what he thought might be his quarry, but had turned out to be only a shadow.

_And that's why you _never_ try tracking in a steady rain._

His horse's breath came out in small puffs of vapor, which dissipated quickly into the light drizzle and growing darkness. Even the sturdy animal beneath him was beginning to grow impatient with this crazy, ill-fated trip deep into the woods. If the wolves caught scent of them…

The youth astride the horse tried not to think of that. Wolves were of no concern to him. He'd make his way back to the lodge, rest the horse and himself, and then spin the whole thing into a tall tale later on about how he'd been attacked by highwaymen and fought them off using only his dagger and his wits. The villagers would lap it right up.

Only it was getting dark, and quickly. What little light there was was fading, and with it any hope he might have of being able to use reckoning by the sun. He turned the horse toward what he thought was a westerly direction and clapped his heels to its side. It grudgingly set off at a slow trot.

He rummaged in the pouch at his waist for his last bit of dried venison. It was sodden, like everything else he carried, but at least it was something to eat. He shoved it in his mouth and chewed without tasting it.

Had his father been there, he could only imagine what he might have done. Probably a few strokes with his leather belt for sheer foolhardiness, but then perhaps a grudging respect for his son's nerve, and, after a few rounds of ale, a good hearty laugh at the whole thing. Then they'd spend the rest of the night telling hunting stories, singing dirty ballads, eventually crashing into their warm beds for the night.

But his father was gone. And the young man only had his memories.

Horse and rider passed a small outcropping of rock next to a towering oak tree. Hadn't he passed that same spot not an hour ago? He frowned, dark brows knitting together. If so, it meant he was merely heading in a slow, winding circle. And that meant he was doomed to spent a cold, shivering night under whatever scant cover he might find. Not good.

Frustrated, tired, he dismounted the horse and paused to survey his surroundings more carefully. He could see no more than a few meters ahead of him in any direction, what with the encroaching mist and the darkness. Somewhere, far to the south, he swore he heard the first, plaintive call of a wolf seeking its prey.

He almost laughed to himself. The big boar he'd been hunting was God knew where by now. No sign of its passing remained in the thick mud underfoot. Just this morning he'd ridden out from the hunting lodge, supremely confident that by nightfall, he'd ride back triumphantly to Ste.-Eulalie, a conquering hero, with the boar's lifeless body slung across the back of his horse. He'd be basking in the adulation of the villagers for a month to come. That was the way of things. That was what he lived for.

And now, he wasn't sure that he wouldn't catch his death of cold. If he'd known the word for it, he might have described the whole situation as ironic.

Resigned that he was lost, at least until morning, but not wanting to admit it, he turned to the small provisions at his saddlebag. The flint and tinders were all but useless. The young man growled. The only blanket was the horse's, and it was smelly as well as soaked. He'd just have to find whatever meager cover he could and get through the night as best he could.

After a short search, the hunter found a low cluster of bushes beneath a pair of pines. Surprisingly, the ground below was almost dry. It wasn't a warm bed, but it was better than the alternative.

The young man shrugged. He had nothing to eat, so he didn't even attempt a fire. He stripped the scarlet jerkin from his torso and wrung it out, then replaced it. It wasn't genuinely cold yet, but he knew it would be as the night progressed. For the time being, he sat there, tired but not enough so to sleep. He kept the hunting bow and its remaining arrows close. That was one lesson his father had managed to teach him well.

Minutes passed, maybe hours; the young man had no real sense of time without the sun to guide him. It was simply dark, and cold, and, he noticed, unnaturally silent. The only sounds were the slight chuffing of the horse where it stood and the almost inaudible sigh of the trees as they swayed in the wind. He knew, from his experiences, that most forest animals (for good reason, he thought) took cover during a storm. The only ones that didn't, like the wolves, would not let something as small as a storm deter them from their business.

He knew they were out there, somewhere. Usually he didn't bother them and they in turn did not bother him. That was also the way of things.

The horse's ears pricked up. Something had caught its attention.

They had a visitor.

Slowly, carefully, the hunter strung his bow, nocking an arrow to its string. All the while, he scanned the barely visible treeline, blue eyes unblinking as he did so. Something was out there. The horse made a low, apprehensive grunt. It could see and hear things a man could not.

He was puzzled. An animal, even a small one like a rabbit or fox, would have made some kind of sound. Whatever this one was made none.

The hunter rose from his crouch to his full six-plus feet in height, the bow held at the ready. He would not be caught by surprise.

"Put it down."

His breath escaped him in surprise. A small, curved dagger was held firmly at his side with an unseen hand. A few centimeters more, and it would bury itself in his ribcage. He dropped the bow as if burned.

The speaker's tone had been low, little more than a whisper. He thought he knew the speaker just by his voice, but couldn't be positive.

"Wh…who are you?" said the young man, aware that his voice broke as he said the words.

The dagger did not budge. "Quiet, boy. Just kick that bow of yours away and we'll talk."

The young hunter could hardly oblige quickly enough. As he did, the dagger pulled back ever so slightly, but he still sensed its owner meant business, so he did not attempt anything stupid. He simply held up his hands and turned around.

"All right, now what…"

He stopped. He did know the man, though it had been a few years. He was almost as tall, though wiry instead of muscular, and clean-shaven aside from a trim nut-brown mustache. He wore a tunic and pants that, in their muted shades of grey and green, were a sharp contrast to his own flamboyant red. The man was not smiling, but his black eyes bore the slightest trace of amusement.

His dark-green cloak was the giveaway. The man (and Gaston recognized him now) was a Ranger.

As a boy, he'd always heard the foresters and travelers talking about the Rangers, or Green Men, as they were sometimes called. He hadn't seen one for himself until he was about eight, and even then, it had been a fleeting glimpse. At the time he hadn't been exactly sure what they did. When he'd asked his father, Antoine de Valois had responded as he did to anything he didn't understand fully. He'd dismissed it entirely.

"They're strange folk," Gaston remembered his father saying. "They have some sort of arcane powers. Blend right into the trees, just like magic. You stay away from them."

That hadn't been sufficient explanation to his young son, and Gaston had managed to learn, through rudimentary research and a lot of tavern gossip, that the Green Men were actually a sort of cross between secret police, sworn to whatever nobles ruled their province, and woodsmen like himself. Before he knew any better, he'd asked Antoine to join the small, elite group, to which Antoine had only laughed.

"You're a de Valois, boy, a hunter! You're not some damn sneaker like them!"

Gaston winced at the memory. The man before him was no magician, he knew now, but he'd still managed to sneak up on himself, the best hunter and tracker in the whole of the valley. And that was a special skill.

"You de Valois. Always as subtle as a boar running through a lady's chamber, aren't you?" The green-clad man chuckled drily. "And you…Gaston. I could have found you had I been blind and stone-deaf. Been tracking you most of the day, in fact."

The young man grunted. He was sore that he hadn't noticed the other man's pursuit, and even angrier that he had been caught, helpless as a young fawn, by the Ranger.

"What do you want?" he snapped, throwing caution to the wind. He was dimly aware that the older man could have killed him in an instant, but right now his youthful rage, along with his hunger and cold, had blinded him to it.

The other shrugged, deftly re-sheathing his dagger in one fluid motion. "If that's the attitude you're going to take, fine. Rot out here by yourself and die of exposure." He turned to leave the clearing, then stopped. "In fact, I came looking for you."

"You found me, didn't you?" spat Gaston with the same venomous tone his father had once used. "You damn Rangers and your trickery. You didn't answer my question, anyway."

The Ranger paused. He had to be careful how he phrased what he was going to say next, for he sensed that Gaston de Valois was poised to explode with anger.

"If you'll accept," he began, keeping his voice low and even, "I need to ask for your help."

Gaston roared with laughter so hard that his horse reared with fright. "My _help_? What would a _Ranger_ need my help for?" He sarcastically emphasized the word. "That's good." He slapped his own knees as he continued to laugh.

"For starters," the Ranger said calmly, "it would mean a warm fire and a nice slab of meat for you tonight." He noticed how the youth's eyes widened as he spoke. He did know how to appeal to these de Valois and their baser instincts.

"Oh?" asked Gaston suspiciously. "So you'll do that for nothing, will you? Is this another one of your mind games?"

The brown-haired man shook his head, frustrated. Like most country folk, Gaston was raised inherently fearful of _le Verts. _He thought they were mages, shadow men who could turn themselves invisible and become one with the packs of wolves in the forests. It was ironic, thought the Ranger, considering how Gaston had once, long ago, practically begged his father to become one of them.

"I am in need of…" He again picked his words carefully. "A strong lad to help recover something that was taken from me. And you're the strongest and the best in this province, or so I'm told." In fact, he had been watching the younger de Valois ever since he'd turned him down as a young apprentice. He was immensely strong, a good fighter, even had a certain intuitive skill for woodcraft. But he lacked perhaps the foremost quality for a Green Man: subtlety. With his vivid red clothing, heavy footsteps, and booming voice, he was no more invisible than a cow dropping on a pastry. He'd never have survived the exacting standards of the Rangers.

Gaston beamed at the man's praise. Now he was speaking the proper language. "Well, I don't think I can just jaunt off on some quest with you…what was your name again?" It had been a long time, and his faint memory could not recall.

"Theophile," replied the other. "Theophile Chevrier."

"Theophile, then. Anyway," continued Gaston, ticking off on his gloved fingers, "I have to help provide for the villagers, add to my father's trophy collection, hit my servant over the head when he deserves it…very important, that…"

The Ranger shook his close-cropped head. "This is urgent. You can say no, but I must ride out in two days at the latest. I need to keep to the trail while it's still fresh. I only thought you would be up for it." He shrugged, and turned his back on the strapping youth.

Gaston stopped to consider. It was a lull in the hunting season, high summer, and the people of Ste.-Eulalie were well-fed, content, and happy in their secluded valley, without the threats of marauders or highwaymen that plagued many other villages. And it would give him a chance to, just maybe, steal a few of the Green Men's skills without actually becoming one of them.

_And, it would give him a chance to create the stuff of legends. To have the villagers compose songs about him and tell stories about his heroic exploits._

His mind was resolute. He would go. Shouldering the hunting bow and his small bundle of effects, he called to Theophile.

"So what is it we're after, anyway? Some renegade bandit? A cache of treasure?" He grinned in anticipation.

The Ranger, huddled deep in his forest-green cloak, did not turn to look at him, but his voice was just barely audible over the rain and the wind.

"My niece."

_To Be Continued_


	2. True and False

**Ecarlate et Vert, chapter 1**

**True and False**

The two men had ridden back to Theophile's home together an hour or so ago; Gaston, having been lost, had not even known the Ranger's stone cabin was in this part of the woods. It was nowhere near as luxurious as the de Valois family's hunting lodge, but it was warm and dry, with a homey, solid air about it. His black horse had been stabled in the barn for the night.

"More venison?"

Gaston didn't seem to notice Theophile's sarcasm, but helped himself to more of the roast anyway. With his mouth partially full, he spoke his approval.

"Not bad. You have a housekeeper or something?" mumbled the young man.

Theophile didn't answer; just raised an eyebrow in a mixture of consternation and amusement. "No. I've lived on my own for some time. As have you, if I'm not mistaken."

"Well, there's my idiot houseboy. My father left him to me." Gaston wiped the grease from his mouth and belched loudly. "He gets the firewood, fetches water, you know, all those things a man like me is too busy to do."

Across the table from him, the Ranger sighed. Horrible table manners, a grossly inflated opinion of himself, and a haughty disdain for anyone below his station were just a few of the younger man's finer qualities. Theophile swallowed his rising annoyance and gestured with one hand. "Are you finished eating now so that I can talk?"

A second belch. "Fire away."

"So, as I was saying, about this business with my niece," began Theophile.

"Are you going to eat that?" interrupted Gaston, pointing to the half-eaten piece of venison on Theophile's plate. Wordlessly, the Green Man shoved it toward him. "Hate to waste a good piece of meat like that," he explained with a shrug.

Theophile eyed him. At the rate Gaston was growing, he'd be bigger than a draft horse by his eighteenth year. He was already built like a young bullock, powerful in the shoulders and torso, with narrow hips and muscular legs. Certainly not a good build for a Green Man, whose stock in trade was stealth, grace, and the art of deception. But where the two of them were likely headed, the qualities of strength and power might just be what was needed to compliment his own formidable range of skills, he thought to himself.

"I don't know if you've ever met my brother Benedicte," said Theophile, and seeing Gaston shake his head 'no,' continued. "He and his wife live at the southern end of the province, so I didn't suppose so. I'm the elder brother, so naturally I was heir to my family's estate. That didn't sit kindly with Benedicte. You see, we're the descendants of a minor noble house…"

Gaston snorted. "And your name is 'Chevrier?' That's not a noble name. That's a goat-man's name."

Theophile waved the insult aside. "If you'd let me finish? My surname at birth was Grenier. I would expect any de Valois to know that name. It was only after I'd started my Ranger training did I decide to drop the moniker, as it would have attracted too much attention."

The words had their desired effect. Even Gaston picked up on the name-drop, and his blue eyes narrowed. "Grenier? That good-for-nothing land baron who passed all those anti-hunting rules?"

"The same."

Low in his throat, like an animal, Gaston growled. "Then I know him. Why would I want to help scum like that?"

Insults seemed to roll off Theophile's back as easily as water off a duck. The Ranger shrugged. "Although we are estranged, that is my family you speak of, hunter," he said, his light tone belying the anger that rose in him. "In fact, our mission is to rescue his daughter, Petronelle. There is no love lost between me and my brother, but for that little girl, I will do anything."

Gaston studied the man across from him. He seemed sincere as he spoke. In fact, upon mentioning the girl, Theophile's face had seemed less hard for a moment, almost sad. Maybe the Rangers weren't as tough as he'd always heard. He took a pull at the tankard in front of him.

"You still haven't said what's in it for me," Gaston said, his voice unaffected by the strong ale.

"I mentioned that we Greniers are a noble family, however small?"

The young man nodded. He could sense where this was going.

The Ranger paused for effect. "My brother has offered a five-livres reward for his daughter's safe return."

Gaston's broad jaw gaped. Five livres was more than he could make in several years hunting the forests around Ste.-Eulalie. It would mean a long period of comfortable living for him, and plenty of good food and drink, without having to work for it.

Not that he had to work at it anyway, he thought; the villagers always showered him with free provisions at the tavern. But the money would give him influence, prestige…maybe even another hunting lodge. The wheels began to turn in his head as he considered the proposition.

"You'd get the reward. My only wish is to see Petronelle back, unharmed," explained Theophile. "That would be our agreement. Consider it hazard pay," he added with a lopsided, amused smile.

"Hazard pay?" Gaston laughed. "Going in and grabbing some girl from a pack of half-drunk brigands? I could do that in my sleep, Ranger."

Knowing he had sufficiently grabbed the young man's limited attention, Theophile reached out his hand. "So we're agreed?"

Gaston pumped the proffered hand vigorously. "Of course. We'll be back in a few days, and maybe I'll even manage to grab another trophy or two along the way."

The older man sat back in his wooden chair now, still smiling in his offhanded way. "Good. I'm glad to hear it. Now, you may want to get some sleep, because at dawn tomorrow, we're riding out at full speed."

A yawn. The rich food and potent ale were finally having an effect on the young hunter, who had been tired to begin with. "Any idea where we're going?"

"Les Grises."

Les Grises had been aptly named. It lay to the north and east of the verdant valley of Ste.-Eulalie, and it was a place summer seemed to have forgotten. Stands of lightning-struck pines forlornly stretched up to the sky, which was the color of gunmetal. There were no wildflowers to break the monotony of the stony ground, and the only birdsong was provided by a solitary crow in one of the lower branches of a tree. It seemed to be a part of the country that hope had bypassed altogether.

He'd never say it out loud, but Gaston was secretly glad Theophile had made him leave Leonidas, his courser, behind at the shack. The high-strung stallion would have shied every few steps in this forsaken place. The horse beneath him now was slightly smaller, more finely boned, and he had a distinct hunch that it could carry a man his size all day without tiring. At first, Gaston had laughed at it.

"What kind of horse is this?" he remembered saying that morning.

"The kind that can outrun wolfpacks and won't let his rider get killed," the Ranger had answered in his straightforward way.

Theophile rode a similar mount, a curiously spotted gelding with long limbs and a lean build to match his owner's. The horses were unbothered by the unnatural silence of Les Grises; their soft steps were just about the only sound to be heard. They'd been in the saddle for several hours now, and Gaston was beginning to fidget slightly.

"What kind of damned place is this?" he muttered not for the first time that day. He had been here a few times, but never stayed long. Game was scarce here, he knew, because of the scant cover afforded by the straggly trees.

Apparently Theophile had heard, because he reined in his paint horse alongside Gaston's dapple grey. "It's rumored to be cursed," he remarked noncommittally. Seeing Gaston's reaction, he offered his lopsided smile. "Of course, we _Verts_ don't really believe in curses, only facts. As to what you country folk believe, I don't know."

Gaston scowled. At every available turn so far, the Green Man had taken the opportunity to gently rib him, his (lack of) abilities, his questionable upbringing, or anything else he saw fit.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked the older man in disgust.

Theophile's grin widened. "Immensely."

So apparently Rangers _did_ have a sense of humor, thought Gaston miserably.

Above them, the low, leaden sky rumbled ominously. There was another storm coming. Barely after they'd managed to lead their horses off the road, the sky cracked open and sheets of rain poured down. In seconds, the dusty road had become a slithering column of mud. Beneath the spreading live oak that was their canopy, the two riders and their horses remained relatively dry.

"Here." Theophile passed Gaston one of the Rangers' twice-baked "traveling biscuits" from his pouch.

As Gaston chewed the hardtack, he realized how hungry he was after only half an uneventful day on horseback. "Got any meat to go with it?"

"You de Valois and your one-track minds," remarked the Ranger as he produced a strip of dried beef. "Don't you ever think of anything else?"

Gaston never really had stopped to consider. Now he did. Outside of eating and drinking, there was hunting, spending time at the tavern, pretty girls…in fact, there were many things to keep his mind occupied.

"Sure," he said without thinking. "Got a lot on my mind, I do." Then he paused. "Like right now, I'm asking myself where exactly we're going. You didn't give too many details beyond Les Grises." Gaston, like most of the village types, didn't like traveling far from home unless he had a specific destination in mind.

Theophile shrugged. "I don't know all the details myself."

"What _do_ you know?" the young man asked impatiently, his voice petulant.

It was a hard question to answer. The Ranger did know that Petronelle had been kidnapped in broad daylight; he'd only learned the fact secondhand from a traveling horse trader, as Benedicte no longer spoke face to face with him. The trader had, after careful interrogation, told him about a rumored string of similar, random abductions of other children in different parts of the province. This led Theophile's quick mind to believe that someone, somewhere, had his reasons for doing so. However, after speaking to the locals and the handful of travelers he knew to be in the valley, he was still at a loss as to who it might be, or any motive for doing so beyond the obvious thought of selling the captives as slaves. All he had to go on was a general direction: northeast, which meant Les Grises and the village of Voeilfons. Beyond that, he'd have to rely on his skills at tracking, deductive reasoning, and intelligence gathering, all of which he'd honed over his nine years as a Ranger.

And, just in case he found himself in a dicey situation, he thought with wry humor, he had his very own invincible bodyguard.

"Well?" Gaston demanded impatiently, though the silence between them had lasted less than a minute.

Theophile fixed his stare on the hunter. "I've already told you what I know. We're going to have to track them. You do know how to do that, I'm told," he said with just a hint of sarcasm.

Gaston gestured helplessly at the rain, which had begun to slacken. "Not in this, I don't. And if we stay out here, we're never going to find them," he complained.

The art of subtlety was lost on a de Valois brute, thought Theophile. Nevertheless, he could try and pass on some of his knowledge as they made their way to Voeilfons. "Do you hear that?" he prompted.

"Hear what?"

"Exactly," Theophile said with a smile. The rain, as quickly as it had come, had stopped, and the clouds had begun to allow small gaps of sunlight through them. "Time to move along. And if you'll be so kind not to swing up on Metibert's poor back like a sack full of rotten potatoes, dear boy…"

He could feel the young man's dark expression boring into his back as he spurred his own horse back onto the trail.

The afternoon hours in Les Grises were mostly sunny, though it was a strange kind of sunlight to one accustomed to the bright golden rays of Ste.-Eulalie. It was, thought Gaston as he rode along, a lot like the way light looked in a pond or stream. Not quite as bright as it could have been.

There were also a few animals. A family of rabbits, who scattered at their approach, a gamefowl, and a scrawny squirrel. No deer could be seen, though they'd likely be found in the deeper parts of the grey forest. Gaston, without much else to do, was unconsciously fidgeting with the hanging end of his hunting bow. The small creatures made such tempting targets.

"How good are you with that bow?" The question was sudden, direct, and Gaston hadn't been expecting it.

Without so much as blinking, Gaston pulled one of his broadhead arrows from his quiver, nocked it, and fired into the withered stump of a nearby tree, where the shaft buried itself. "Pretty good," he said in the carefully casual way he always did when he was boasting.

He could tell the Green Man was quietly impressed, though his dark eyes were impassive. "How often do you practice?" Theophile asked him.

"I don't need practice," said Gaston with a dismissive shake of his head. "I'm a natural."

"Ah, I see," answered Theophile in mock solemnity. "And how did you learn in the first place? Did someone teach you?"

"My father," Gaston responded with confidence.

It seemed to be a satisfactory answer, but then the Ranger dismounted his horse and moved to where Gaston's shot had made its mark. "I think you could hit it from, say, twice that distance? On foot?"

Gaston knew a challenge when he heard one. "That's easy," he said. He swung down from Metibert, threw his cloak to the ground, and selected another arrow. Putting it to his bowstring, he drew, looking down his sight, and…

"Oh, one thing I forgot to mention," Theophile called to him from across the way. "I want three shots, not just one. One might just be random luck."

Damn if that man wasn't getting on his last nerve after just one day!

The first arrow flew. It pulled, Gaston saw, ever so slightly to the left, but still found its mark. A second followed it, and this one was blown wide by one of the gusts of wind that had begun to increase as the afternoon progressed. The last one was hopelessly high, if nothing else, because of his sheer frustration.

"I can't do it right if you're staring at me like that," he shouted. Even from where he stood, he could tell the Ranger was grinning.

"You expect a highwayman or some rogue man-at-arms to give you that courtesy?" Theophile asked as he walked over to return the arrows. "You're not bad, but you need focus. That comes with practice," he advised the young hunter, placing one hand on his massive shoulder.

"Right," said Gaston behind clenched teeth, replacing the shafts in his quiver. He had decided he didn't like the lean Ranger very much…but he didn't entirely dislike him either. "Focus. What's that mean, exactly?"

"It means to pay attention, to think not just about the action, but the steps behind the action," explained Theophile in his even voice. "For example, I've been focused for the last half hour or so on whoever's been following us."

Before he could stop himself, Gaston wheeled around, his hunting knife drawn. "Following us?" He could barely disguise the surprise he felt.

Easily, Theophile made him lower the weapon. "Yes. I don't think they mean us harm, but in Les Grises, it's best to err on the side of caution."

Gaston, at a loss again, frowned. Why couldn't the man just say what he meant? "You mean we have to stay ready?" he guessed.

Theophile's nod confirmed that his guess was correct. "I'd like you to keep your bow strung, if you would. Keep a lookout, but don't be obvious about it." He smiled and re-mounted his horse. "In fact, I know we're being followed closely, because the man following us is even less subtle than you."

It was the second time that afternoon Theophile had aroused his temper. It was not to be the last.

Dusk came quickly to this lonely part of the country, though it was high summer. The grey forest cast long, skeletal shadows all around the two riders, whose progress had been slowed somewhat by the mud. In truth, Theophile had not tested a tenth of his Ranger horses' speed and endurance, but had wanted to spend the day mostly at a walk or trot, getting to know more about his traveling companion.

His impressions were certainly correct: the young man was a firebrand, impetuous, brash, somewhat naïve, and entirely full of himself. Plenty of young men were at his age. But this one was a de Valois, and his ego had been inflated over the years by his doting parents as well as a town full of simple peasant folk who thought of all de Valois as almost godlike figures.

Theophile knew Gaston did not trust him. He would have been surprised if he had. Part of it was his status as a Green Man, he knew, but there was something more. For the first time in his life, the young man had met someone who was not only his equal in most rights, but in fact his superior in many. And that, to any de Valois, was anathema.

The Ranger was glad that, for the moment, the young hunter was silent, brooding in his saddle and peering ahead into the gloom. Probably meant he was still angry. That was the problem with the de Valois: in a battle of wits, they had always been helplessly outmanned, thought Theophile.

Both men reined in their horses at the small crossroads before them. Voeilfons, according to the weathered sign nailed to a tree, was only a short distance to the north.

"Thank God," sighed Gaston. "I could go for a drink and some meat."

Beside him, Theophile smiled. "Just when I thought your horizons were expanding."

He knew his quick wit and learned vocabulary would confuse the younger man. They did, and Gaston's eyebrows knitted together in what was rapidly becoming a familiar expression.

"We're still being followed. They're quite good, I will say." The Ranger didn't turn to look, but he felt the undeniable presence of someone, or something, in the very near vicinity.

"Couldn't we just shoot them?" Gaston suggested.

That was another thing about the de Valois, Theophile knew. The simpler, more direct the solution, the better for them. Like bulls charging straight ahead.

"We don't know if they're friend or foe," he said. "Could be just a lost merchant, or another woodsman." Though they'd be crazy to be out in Les Grises at this hour unless they knew where they were going, he thought but did not say aloud.

Gaston was indifferent. "I really don't care. I do care that my backside hurts like the devil, and I'm hungry," he protested as he wheeled his horse toward the northbound path.

Theophile stopped. He strained his ears to hear. Something wasn't right.

"Get back!" he hissed, dismounting and leading his paint gelding into the trees. He threw his forest-green cloak over himself and the horse, and Gaston could see why the color was so effective. The man, and his horse, were effectively invisible.

In suit, Gaston clumsily led Metibert into the sparse cover. Because of his bright red jerkin, he could only stay still and hope. Beside him, Theophile held a hand to his lips, the universal signal for silence.

Two men on horseback had entered the clearing. Both mounts were leggy and lean, dark-grey, and looked equally as menacing as their riders. The men spoke in low, garbled voices to one another. Not much of their features could be seen, but they were both tall, powerfully built, and armored. Each carried an array of dully gleaming knives at his belt along with a wicked-looking spear.

"What are they sa…" Before Gaston could continue, Theophile clapped a hand over his lips. A brief, terrible moment passed. One rider turned his head to where Theophile and Gaston lay hidden in the foliage. Then, deciding there was nothing of interest, he wheeled his horse in the direction he had come. His companion galloped down the other path leading to points east.

And then, the Ranger and the hunter were alone once more.

It had been a very long time since Gaston's heart had been racing like it was now. With a trembling hand, he pointed where the second rider had gone moments before.

"What were they?" Gaston asked, his voice softer, and shakier, than he remembered it to be.

Theophile shrugged, pulling the cloak from his horse and back around his shoulders.

"They're _les Condamnes,_" said the Ranger without a trace of emotion, "and they're the reason I want you to keep that bow of yours strung at all times."

_To Be Continued_


	3. Fight and Flight

**Chapter 3**

Gaston's mind swam with a thousand questions as he and Theophile rode at a hasty trot toward Voeilfons. The trouble was, he, not having brainpower as one of his better qualities, could only think to ask one of them at a time. And the Ranger, for his part, had suddenly become very tight-lipped.

"Why didn't you warn me about them?" the hunter asked for at least the third time since they'd had their hair-raising encounter in the woods. 'They,' of course, were _les Condamnes,_ and he didn't speak their name for fear that they somehow might re-materialize out of thin air.

Theophile, under his cowl, smiled without humor. "I _did_ warn you. I told you this would be a very dangerous operation, and I couldn't absolutely guarantee your safety," he answered with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Yeah, but you didn't say anything about monstrous ghost-riders or…"

"_Ta bouche!"_ Theophile hissed, cutting him off. Instantly, the Ranger nocked an arrow to his bow, and Gaston did the same. Ahead, only darkness lay ahead of them, and both men were still rattled from their close brush with _les Condamnes_.

On the small knoll ahead of them, a brown shape darted forward. They both relaxed as they realized it was harmless. A dog, a little mongrel shepherd, wagged its tail and barked once more.

"Is that what you're worried about?" Gaston laughed, almost falling off Metibert in his sudden relief. "That's our terror of the night?"

Privately, Theophile was just as relieved, but said nothing. He lowered his bow and slung it across his saddle bow once more. Finally, he clapped his heels to his paint's side. "We must be close. That's the problem with Les Grises, it always plays tricks on your senses. Let's go," he called to his companion.

The dog, overjoyed to have companions, kept pace with the two horses. He barked once more.

_If you're this carefree, it must mean those devils are far away,_ Gaston realized as he and his horse crested the knoll and looked down into a small, bowl-shaped valley. Beneath was a village, barely visible through the light curtain of mist and gloom. Only a few flickers of light gave it away. The dog, bored already, sprinted downhill, back to his unseen master's home.

"Voeilfons," said the Ranger, answering Gaston's unasked question. "If you know what's good for you, hunter, hold your tongue down there and follow my lead." He hesitated. "And for God's sake, don't mention _them_," he added as he cast a sideways glance to the treeline behind them.

"Have I let you down yet?" Gaston shot back confidently.

The Ranger did not answer him, but Gaston had the bad feeling that, inside the man's deep cowled cloak, he was grinning again.

Voeilfons was maybe half the size of Ste.-Eulalie, Gaston realized, but apart from the usual establishments such as a smithy, wheelwright, and tannery, the place was absolutely nothing like his home village. He tried to put his finger on what was different. Then he realized what it was. Everything here was without color. The few buildings that were painted were dilapidated and peeling, their signs broken and faded. A pot of flowers someone had set outside, in an attempt for brightness, was sad-looking and wilted.

It was as if someone, or something, had sucked all the cheer right out of the place. And he had a pretty good idea what that was.

"Happy place, isn't it?" the hunter said sarcastically. The horses' hooves clopped on the cobblestones; it was terribly loud in the otherwise perfect silence of Voeilfons. "You come here much?"

Theophile seemed to be looking for something. Distracted, he turned in his saddle. "Not when I can avoid it. This is business, remember?" he said with some irritation.

"Sorry. Forgive me for asking a question." Gaston was equally annoyed by now, as well as tired and hungry.

He himself had never been to Voeilfons, much less heard of the place. In fact, he'd hardly been anywhere else within two days' ride of home, he thought glumly. He wondered why his father Antoine never even mentioned this place to him, and he was about to ask Theophile when their horses came to a sudden halt.

A man stood in front of them, burdened with a pair of buckets. By his rough garb and weather-beaten face, he appeared to be an average workingman. Theophile lowered his cowl and spoke.

"Pardon me, _monsieur, _we are simple travelers looking for lodging and a tankard of ale for tonight. Can you help us?" he said as politely as he could.

The peasant, simple though he was, eyed Theophile's green cloak with suspicion. "Simple travelers, eh? I know your type. You're one of those damn Rangers. In league with the spirits, no doubt…"

It was Gaston who interrupted him. The young hunter's voice was full of confidence. "Spirits? Hah!" He snorted dismissively. "What kind of man believes in spirits? I don't know about Rangers," he said, gesturing to Theophile, "but this fellow's a good friend of mine, and he asked you a question. I suggest you answer it before he gets angry."

He sat back in the saddle, smug, not noticing Theophile's fierce expression.

Whether it was Gaston's forcefulness or Theophile's green cloak that did the trick, neither knew, but the peasant finally sighed in resignation. "All right. The local tavern is at the end of the street. Don't say I didn't warn you though, rough sort of place…"

"Sounds _perfect_!" boomed Gaston, eager for a hot meal and ale. He spurred Metibert forward.

"Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen," muttered Theophile under his breath.

The tavern, for some reason known only to its owner, was called the Leaping Cow. Its faded sign bore the emblem of a cow jumping over a crescent moon.

It was about the only welcoming thing about the establishment. Theophile was intimately familiar with such places; he had been in so many of them in his nine years of Ranger service. He knew it was best to lurk quietly in the shadows, bow ever at the ready. It was the very best way to gather intelligence: sitting back and letting other men's tongues loosen through drink. He sat in the background now, and, to a casual observer, he seemed to be just another part of the rough walls.

They'd been inside for a couple hours, their horses bedded down in the adjoining livery, a room reserved upstairs for the two men. The proprietor was a tall, grey-haired woman (a widow, Theophile guessed), and she'd been more than accommodating. People in villages like Voeilfons too often were not, and it was a pleasant surprise. The Ranger had long since finished the hearty plate of venison stew and home-baked bread she'd served him. He'd been gracious enough to stay in the shadows, silent and brooding, nursing his ale carefully.

The source of his frustration was evident. No one seemed to be talking, which was unusual. The atmosphere of the Leaping Cow was somber, conversations muttered and hushed. Men always talked in taverns. Something was wrong.

Which was why, in a desperate gambit, he'd used his alternate plan.

Gaston had taken to the rough-and-tumble atmosphere of the tavern as a fish to water, and Theophile watched with a mixture of pained amusement and horror as he cajoled his captive audience. He still kept a close eye on the young man, who'd already drunk three tankards of the inn's strong ale but was still going strong. He must have a stomach like a draft horse.

If Gaston couldn't get the locals talking, they weren't going to.

"And then, the wolves took one look at me and ran back into the woods, just like a bunch of scared dogs," he crowed, taking another swig of the powerful brew. The handful of local girls had gathered around the strange visitor in the bright scarlet jerkin. Gaston had that effect on the opposite sex; they were drawn to him like iron filings to a magnet.

Strangely, there were no young men around the hunter's own age to be seen, although the older male villagers had begun to grow annoyed. One of them, a burly man in a smith's apron, muttered something in Gaston's general direction.

"Damn fool," the smith said, "wolves don't act like that."

"Excuse me?" Gaston interrupted, shocked that anyone would have the nerve to break him off in mid-boast. "What did you say?"

"I said," the smith repeated, "there's no way they could have done that, 'cause wolves aren't like dogs. They'll eat you as soon as look at you," he finished with a loud belch.

Carefully, Gaston rose to his full height from the seat he'd occupied. From the gathered crowd, there was a collective gasp. Theophile, from his spot in the shadows, instantly came to alert.

"I was there, friend. I'm just telling it like it was," the young hunter said, smiling.

"And I'm telling you that's _merde_." The smith, though not as tall, was well-muscled from years at his trade, and didn't appear in the least intimidated.

At that moment, Theophile, watching from the shadows, knew he could have sliced the tension with the dirk he carried in his right boot. His well-honed instincts told him to stay put. Gaston could handle himself.

And if he couldn't, he had backup.

Each man, the hunter and the smith, drew himself up to his full height. Then, inexplicably, Gaston started to laugh. Nervously, the other tavern patrons did as well.

"You must not understand," the young man said, bits of laughter punctuating his words. "I'm Gaston de Valois. Wolves act differently in my presence. You have heard of me?" The last was said less as a question and more as a statement.

Silently, Theophile cursed. That was the one thing he'd been explicit about with his young companion. When traveling in hostile territory, it was always a good idea to travel incognito, to keep your own identity a secret. You just never knew who your enemies might be.

But Gaston, of course, had paid the warning little attention. And his tongue had been loosened by the strong ale.

"De Valois?" The smith scratched at his scruffy beard. "You mean that damn _paltonier_ from up in the valley? _Oui_, I know him. Nothing but a…"

Whatever the man thought of Gaston's father, no one ever did find out, because the younger de Valois' fist caught him under the chin at precisely that moment. The man staggered back. After the momentary daze, he shook his head, then aimed a heavy blow at the hunter's head. It connected dully.

This was just the sort of worst-case scenario the Ranger had imagined. The combination of a stranger in their midst, heavy drink, and pent-up tension had ignited the men of Voeilfons. In seconds, other villagers had joined in the fracas and were pounding away at Gaston, who unleashed a flurry of blows in every direction.

Theophile sprang to his feet. His weapons, the bow and the dirk, were useless in these close quarters, as he could not risk hitting Gaston. Nevertheless, he rushed in to assist. The younger man, at the moment, seemed to be doing just fine; he'd sent the smith, and two other villagers, reeling with forceful punches.

"Let's get out of here!" hissed the Ranger, ducking to avoid a chair thrown at him. At this point, all pretense was gone.

"Who wants more?" roared Gaston, shrugging aside blows easily by now. "Come on, boys, I'm ready!"

But the fight, such as it was, was over. These men were clearly not born fighters, Theophile saw. They were a scared lot of farm laborers, craftsmen, and peasants who had been living in fear for a long time. He decided he could use that fact to his advantage.

"Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure," he said evenly, drawing his dirk. "However, my friend and I here," he gestured to Gaston, "are on urgent business, and if any one of you so much as says another word, I'll spit him like a pig." The Ranger's voice was low, with a slight growl underneath it, like a wolf's.

"And I'll have the Cloaked Ones upon him so fast, he won't be able to blink."

If the mood in the tavern had been tense before, it was painfully so now. Theophile had broken his own rule and invoked the name of _les Condamnes_. But he was a Ranger, a learned man, and did not put much stock in superstition. The men of Voeilfons, on the other hand, made a variety of gestures to ward off evil as he spoke the words.

A few of them, the impudent smith included, shuffled off through the tavern doors into the night. The rest slunk back from the bar, looking guilty and giving the red-clad hunter and his Ranger companion the widest of berths.

"I thought I did just fine," Gaston said before Theophile had had a chance to ask him anything. He grinned broadly, ignoring the other's pained expression.

"You de Valois and your diplomatic ways," sighed the Ranger, pouring himself a little of the wine from a carafe on the bar. "Is it some kind of gift?"

"Absolutely." The younger man put his arms behind his head, satisfied. "By the way, you manage to snoop anything from over there?"

Theophile felt mildly insulted by Gaston's choice of words, but said nothing. He had already come to realize that words were useless when it came to dealing with this brute. Instead, he tried another tactic.

"No, but did those girls tell you anything?" He gestured to the small knot of wenches in the far corner, who stood gossiping amongst themselves about the strangers among them.

"They told me I was the best-looking they'd ever seen. Said I was the first real man they'd run into years, and that my chin…"

The Ranger, annoyed, flung up his hands. "I mean about the woods, or any strange things that might have happened recently around here," he snapped.

In their argument, the two men had barely noticed the proprietress, the older widow, approaching them in her slight limping gait. "You'll not get much out of that lot. Like a bunch of grackles, they are." She emerged into the dim light. As Theophile had noticed earlier, she was older, perhaps twice his age, and silver-haired. There was something about her that immediately made her seem trustworthy. Theophile realized she was the first person they'd encountered in Voeilfons that had smiled.

Gaston kept prattling on, but the Ranger looked apologetic at the chaos they'd caused. "Madame, I'm sorry for the trouble. I'll gladly pay for the damages," he said, one hand going to the pouch at his belt.

But the woman shook her head. "I never charge a King's Ranger. No matter what kind of company he keeps." She smiled more broadly.

Theophile was intrigued. Most people, especially provincials like these, knew little about his work. They were usually just as suspicious about Rangers as they were about _les Condamnes_ and other creatures of the night. This woman, for some strange reason, was not. "Who are you?" he asked her softly.

"I'm a friend. You may call me Clemence." She poured more wine for her guest.

"And, Clemence, why would you want to help two strangers, one of whom," he gestured to Gaston, "nearly wrecked your establishment?"

"Because," the innkeeper said, drawing her breath in suddenly, "you and I, Ranger, are after the same thing." She pointed toward the door and the dark, forebidding world that lay beyond. "To stop those cursed devils once and for all."

_To Be Continued_


End file.
